On the Day of the Dead
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THE REDWOOD COAST Volume 12, Number 4 REVIEW Fall 2010 A Publication of Friends of Coast Community Library in Cooperation with the Independent Coast Observer CULTURAL STUDIES On the Day of the Dead Hilda Johnston hildren, I know you have nothing to say. Yet over and over again Cyou’ll be asked to say it. And I’m not asking you to turn your umbrella of silence inside out, the ribs poking into a five-paragraph essay; I am only asking you to write a few sentences. My head is heavy too. It’s the season. We aren’t farmers, yet we know the harvest is over—a few wisps of hay blowing over the bare fields, small birds pecking for grain. Even the dead are uneasy. That’s why we have All Hallows Eve and, in Mexico, The Day of the Dead. But this is not a gloomy holiday, as you can see by this altar. In Mexico, skeletons ride THE BIG FRESNO FAIR bicycles, play the guitar, or dress up to be married. Children eat sugar skulls deco- rated with flowers. For our altar I brought a photograph of my uncle when he was a boy with his THE BIG FRESNO FAIR horse, some tomatoes, green peppers and a beer bottle. My Uncle made Jamba- A night out with my mom and Aunt Ella laya—that’s a shrimp dish—with beer, and it’s the custom to put a favorite dish of the dead on the altar. No, they don’t eat Stephen D. Gutierrez it; the aroma is enough. And every altar has marigolds, which, they say, smell like bone and attract the dead. Now you’d was living in Fresno and inviting for fishing and good tequila—and her, of “Ay, Jo, you’re going crazy, I think,” think the dead, being all bone, would long my mom and aunt to visit us when course! she liked to laugh and say. She my aunt said. for something more sensuous and fleshy they could. They came up often, got married and slipped into the life of us, “Maybe, but I know at least I’m in like rose or honeysuckle, but maybe mari- on the train, disembarking at the giving birth to three boys and living in a Fresno!” She sang again. “Fresno! golds are all they can bear. charming station in downtown nice house in San Gabriel. She tagged Fresno! Fresno! LA! LA! LA! What a We also have Indian corn because IFresno. I met them under the quaint tile along with my mom everywhere. They wonderful world we live in! Where are each kernel is a seed. I know it’s not until roof, greeting them on the platform and visited me because they liked Fresno. the Mex’s?” you’re teenagers that many of you will driving them home, my mom calling out, “It’s so, so Fresno here!” my mother “In Tijuana,” my aunt said, laughing. begin to marvel at the properties of seeds, “Yoo-hoo,” waving me down, and my had said the last time they came down, “Shut up now. You’re in Fresno. They’re but at the harvest it is most important to aunt lugging a bag behind her, complain- and looked around. going to deport you.” garner the seeds. If we lose the seeds, we ing all the way. Fruit trees filled my back yard and the “Ay, Eleanor, you’re too much.” lose the thread. See these dry stalks of “Get in the car, Stephen,” my mother problems of the city receded. “Well, you and your Mexicans all the fennel. Each stalk branches into umbels said. “Hay cholos around here.” “Yeah, Jo, so Fresno,” my aunt re- time. I get sick of hearing you. Relax and of licorice-flavored seeds. “Ay, don’t be so prejudiced,” my aunt minded her. “You just like to come for enjoy Fresno.” You can come up to the altar when said. “It’s just like home, LA.” the ride.” She was the sane one. She nudged me you’ve chosen your skeleton. Remember, “It is, isn’t it?” I had stopped at a red “I love it here, love it!” all the time with her hip rectitude. each of you is the skeleton of someone light in front of a taquería. Plenty more “Well, I like it, too,” my aunt said. “All right, we’re here!” I drove us up who has died. You can pick someone you ran beside it. Brown buildings blended “But I’m not in love with it. It’s a nice into the driveway. My wife Jackie came knew personally or someone from history. into the landscape. In LA, the working city to visit, sure, and see you guys. But out and helped with the bags. Yes, you can be a horse . or, yes, a poor toiled in factories, not fields. Other- it’s not the greatest city in the world, I “Oh, Jackie, you look so good in that dinosaur. I imagine you are more familiar wise, the two cities shared a lot. I liked don’t think, yet.” blouse. Is that the one Carmen gave with dinosaur skeletons than with the them both. They remained places where “Close,” my mom said, “to LA.” you?” Carmen, the other aunt with the lumbering beasts themselves. At least we lower-middle-class Mexicans, like us, “To your LA, maybe,” my aunt said, weird taste, picked a winner for once. were in my day. could feel good. “not mine. I can barely breathe anymore.” “Yeah, I like it a lot.” Whatever skeleton you choose, you “Americans,” my mother reminded me, “Better to breathe LA smog than “It looks really good on you, Jackie. should write about what your skeleton taking it in. “Mira nomás, look at how Fresno air,” my mom sang out. “LA! Let’s get this stuff in the house and eat, remembers. The dinosaur must miss the Mexican it is.” LA! LA!” I’m starving.” Aunt Ella wasn’t shy dur- ferny marshes of the Mesozoic. But the But my aunt checked her. “See, Jo, it’s ing those trips. Nobody was. “What shall horse has a harder time of it. His fields Mexican this, Mexican that. But every- I like fairs, the sights we have for dinner? Mexican?” are still here, a blue-red in the autumn where you go, you want to see where the “Whatever.” sunset. The horse is like the girl who dies Mexicans live.” and sounds, the ex- in Our Town—that’s a play. She comes “It’s true. I love my people,” she said, citement of it all. I ustle in the kitchen produced a good back, invisibly, and watches life going staring out the window. “But they’re so Bdinner, with coffee and dessert, and on without her. She misses everything. poor. I feel sorry for them.” like the rides whirring then a good time spent lying around fol- Yes, even homework—her pencils and “Don’t be so condescending,” I said. lowed. We sat in the living room talking, her copybooks. Death turns everything “We’re no better.” around me, and the burping, loosening our belts; unbuttoning upside down. That’s why we invite the Then she agreed. “We’re not, are we? our waistbands. “Excuse me, that was dead back, not just to give them a day off, Just poor Mexicans, too.” people relaxing for gross.” though god knows they deserve it, but to My aunt said nothing. She was the a bit, and the games “You’re excused, dearie. Ay, diós mío, clear our own heavy heads. It’s as though younger one: the rebel who had been a what was that?” all summer we’ve been squirreling away “career girl” into her late twenties, daring promising a small hap- “That’s the Fresno bugs slapping nuts and seeds and now we can’t remem- the barrio to call her an old maid, working against the window screen.” ber where we’ve stored half of them, and as a secretary for a corporation and saving piness. I enjoyed my- “I’m really in the country, ain’t I?” anyway we have more than we need and enough money to travel. She conquered self, walking around “Not really. You’re a good five miles we’d really like to go to sleep, but first Mexico with Capri pants that stirred the from any field.” we have to make sure we can get through natives. She dropped in on Hawaii and with my aunt and mom, “They don’t have fields anymore in the winter, and that’s why we save these broke some hearts. Fresno?” seeds. And why we welcome the dead. “They asked me to dance all night, Ben flinging his arms “They do, outside the city. It’s not the Now I want each of you to imagine what those guys! But Bev got drunk and we out in the stroller, same.” your skeleton would miss should he come had to cut it short! Crazy Bev!” “What do they have now?” back to visit. Soon she met him, Uncle Eddie, a wide-eyed and amazed. tejano with a booming laugh and a love See DEAD page 10 See FAIR page 10 Page 2 The Redwood Coast Review Fall 2010 EDITOR’S NOTE George Hitchcock, Jorge-of-all-trades Stephen Kessler hen I was an undergradu- a labor organizer, a gardener, an ate and aspiring poet at actor, a playwright, an inves- school in upstate New He was an influen- tor (municipal bonds, he once York in the mid-1960s I counseled me, were the best started reading the small- tial teacher, more by place to put your money), a poet, Wcirculation independent literary journals someone you couldn’t easily pin example than direct known as little magazines.